Call it Affinity
by Sveinity
Summary: “I’m Ron,” He says carefully, “But you probably already know that, don’t you?” HP/RW
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Yeah, I know. It's been forever and I still have unfinished stories I should be working on. Sorry about that, if you're one of the few people waiting for updates. It's probably gonna be a while. But at least there's this to tide you over. Part II should be out soon. It's the final installment.

Pairing: Harry/Ron

Rating: PG-13 here, R for Part II

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am merely playing for my own amusement. No money is being made in the process.

Call it Affinity

Part I

Curfew started over four hours ago. Ron knows because he's been casting _tempus_ religiously ever few seconds. He's never felt so time conscious before, of how it drags by sluggishly the more he watches. Ron hates it. After the first thirty minutes his pajamas began to itch and itch and itch until he finally tore everything off. After the second hour Ron couldn't stay still. His bed became too small, the dormitory too dark and too cold. After the third, his skin crawled with unease; little shivers that made him want to scream. Now Ron's stomach is churning, chest aching fiercely under an invisible weight.

Ron stares through the bed curtains to the empty four-poster next to his. Harry hasn't come back yet. He'd gone off to Merlin only knows sometime during the night and hasn't been seen since. Both the Map and invisibility cloak were whisked away with him. Harry could be anywhere. Ron whishes he was anywhere, too, and not just left behind forgotten.

Kicking back the bedcovers with a sigh of impatience, Ron rolls onto the floor. He tugs on yesterday's robe hanging half out of his trunk. The top holds it snuggly in place. Using more strength than necessary, Ron's lucky that the robe doesn't snag and tear as it flies loose. Somebody snorts. He whirls around to stare at the door hopefully. Nothing. Ron keeps staring anyway.

"Oh, dear," His mirror says, "I do apologize."

"Piss off, will you?" Ron hisses in return, pausing as his voice cracks.

The mirror is graciously silent. Ron faces it reluctantly. He looks gaunt standing in the shadows in nothing more than a pair of underwear, skin crawling with gooseflesh. His vision shifts to the reflection of Harry's bed, an unsteady hand reaching out to touch it in the mirror. Ron's face pales, the image fogging under his breath. Bewildered by the hot tears that spill down his cheeks, Ron stumbles backwards. He trips over his book bag, clumsily catching himself on his bed post. His knees buckle.

_Merlin, what's wrong with me? _

Ron's hands are clutched around his robe, the Gryffindor red glowing like blood under the moonlight ghosting in from the windows. He hugs it to his chest and stands. The cold stone underfoot curls his toes. Ron walks to the door and out to the base of the girl's dormitory, his forgotten robe held limply in his hand. The darkness within this passageway is absolute. Ron is overwhelmed with its presence. Every blink brings a flash of light then darkness, life then darkness. It is as if a grate is opening and closing before his eyes, revealing the possibility of affection – if not love – before steadfastly sliding shut. Ron is scarred with the image.

"Hermione!" Ron yells desperately, scrubbing leftover tears from his face, "'Mione, wake up!"

Lavender appears at the top of the stairs. She is swallowed by a pink dressing gown. Strands of hair stick out every which way from underneath a nightcap. Her face is set in a deep scowl, lips pursed so thin they're barely visible.

"What the hell, Ron?" Lavender whines, "You've probably woken the whole bloody castle!"

"Just-" Ron's breath hitches, his robe trailing through his fingers to the floor, "Get Hermione," He bows his head, feeling the ache in his chest rupture.

"Shove over, Lavender," Hermione orders, fully clothed and making her way down to him, "I'm here, Ron. What's the matter?"

She stands before him quickly, tilting his face to meet hers. Hermione frowns. Ron can't seem to breathe anymore. His chest heaves up and down, eyes squeezed firmly shut. Blood rushes in his ears, drowning out the sound of Hermione anxiously calling his name. Then he is falling, falling, floating high in the air with _mobilicorpus _engulfing him in an invisible bubble of invisible cushions that cradle his body gently.

With a jolt of bright light Ron is revived, lying on a hospital bed. He blinks and blinks again, eyes slowly adjusting to the staggering whiteness around him. The Hospital Wing. He'd know it anywhere even without Madam Pomfery hovering over him with her wand in his face. Ron always comes here frequently to visit when Har-

Ron groans in pain, curling into a ball under the crisp sheets.

"His tears are purple," Hermione supplies helpfully next to him, "I've read about the significance of colors before, so I know it's important."

"Purple, you say?" Madam Pomfrey asks, clucking her tongue in disapproval before she bustles around the infirmary to collect three potions on a tray, "That's certainly unusual."

"Yes, I _know_. Purple means sacrifice, so to have it as a symptom of an illness can't be good, only I don't actually know _how_." Hermione sits on the edge of Ron's bed, taking his hand in hers and looking frazzled, "Can you help him?"

Madam Pomfrey sets the tray of potions on the bedside table next to Ron before facing them again, "I will need to run some tests before I can be certain. While I do that, Mr. Weasley, please answer some questions."

Ron nods listlessly. It is all he can do to stay awake, but at least he knows now that something is definitely wrong with him. Merlin, he should have caught on sooner. Ron might have, too, if he hadn't been so caught up in worrying about… someone.

"Where is the pain?" Madam Pomfrey asks, catching his wince.

Ron touches the concave of his stomach, his chest, the place above his heart; he points to his eyes and his lips, wiggles his fingers in the air. He knows he's probably not being very helpful, but he's just so _tired_.

Madam Pomfrey stares at him for a moment before she waves her wand in front of him, golden light streaming out in ropes to wrap around him from head to toe, "Anything else unusual?"

The light tingles around his body and Ron shivers. The pain in his chest has become more acute, heart pounding an erratic rhythm against his ribcage that Ron cannot follow. Then the spell fades and the golden ropes dissipate.

"Dunno," Ron mumbles gruffly, "I wasn't able to sleep earlier and… my skin was really sensitive?" Hermione smiles encouragingly at him, squeezing his hand, "I started feeling anxious. I almost sicked up a few times. And… I can't stop crying. I- I feel like I want to sleep and never wake up."

"Go on," Madam Pomfrey urges, taking his hand to rub pixie dust on his wrist. Nothing happens, which Ron can tell is a bad thing because Madam Pomfrey shifts her posture in agitation. "There's more, isn't there?"

"I feel… I feel like I _need_ something, but I couldn't tell you what if I wanted to."

"Well," Madam Pomfrey says, looking perplexed, "Why do you feel so anxious?"

She waves her wand again, a small swish and jab that emits a soft blue mist from the tip. The spell shimmers around him. While Ron feels exactly like he did two seconds ago, he can't seem to speak at all.

_Why do I feel anxious? _

"He was probably waiting for Harry," Hermione answers instead, "He wasn't in the dorm when I found Ron. We needed him and he wasn't there."

Madam Pomfrey stops her spells and hands Ron his potions off of the tray, "I'm afraid I can't be certain of what is currently ailing you. I'll need to conduct further research and consult the Headmaster about your condition before I'll be able to provide you with anything concrete."

"You must have some idea!" Hermione says, "Can't you tell us anything?"

"As far as I can gather, Mr. Weasley is suffering from his magical core. As for his medical symptoms, I do not know what they mean or even if his feeling of affection are relevant to them at all."

"But you can treat me?" Ron mumbles, voice hoarse from discomfort, as he stares at his potions.

"Afraid not, Dear. I can only give you medicine to ease the pain. I cannot provide a cure for something I do not know."

"But that's ridiculous!" Hermione cries, looking back and forth from Madam Pomfrey to Ron, "If it's his magical core, you must be able to do _something_. What if he loses his magic?"

Madam Pomfrey shakes her head, sighing quietly, "Because magical cores are so sensitive, that is exactly why I am being so cautious."

"How did this even happen, Ron?" Hermione looks about as upset as Ron feels, but less nauseous. Her cheeks are flushed in consternation, eyes bright with unshed tears; Ron whishes that he had the energy to comfort her so that she'd stop worrying. They'd figure something out, they always do. They'd pull through this. It's not like he was dying, or anything.

"Dunno," Ron mumbles, downing the potions that Madam Pomfrey gives him. They taste vile, and though he can breathe easier, his heart still flutters painfully in his chest, "I was just waiting. I hate being left behind. Next thing I know I'm here."

Ron can almost see the light bulb that flashes on above Hermione's head as her face brightens with awareness. Then it shatters, eyes filling with pity. She sighs something that sounds vaguely like _oh, Ron_, but Ron can't really tell because he's quickly succumbing to sleep.

Ron doesn't know how long he's slept, but his body is stiff and the pain in his chest has returned with a vengeance. He spots three more potions lined up on the bedside table and drinks them greedily. Instant relief and Ron lets out a long, shuddering breath as he gingerly gets out of bed. His bladder is protesting. Cold air kisses his skin and Ron shivers, scratching absently at his bare stomach. He shuffles into the lavatory. After relieving himself, Ron is met with his reflection again. Ron regrets it. His eyes are dull and bloodshot, ringed by dark circles that contrast severely against his ashen face. Even his freckles look a shade paler.

There's a knock on the door. Ron ignores it. He doesn't much feel like speaking to anyone at the moment. The knock comes again, three insistent raps that have his ears ringing. Ron turns and swings the door open, glowering before he's even turned the knob.

"What?" Ron snaps, voice dying in his throat.

It's a boy. He's standing there sweaty and puffing for air. His robe is streaked with slime, glasses askew on his nose. Ron tingles at the sight of him.

"Are you okay?" He asks, brandishing an old piece of parchment frantically between them, "I saw that you were in the infirmary and I've only just gotten back and what's _wrong_ with you?"

The boy's eyes have gone wide, finally absorbing Ron's lackluster appearance. Ron feels more self conscious than he probably should. So he pushes past him, flinching when the boy grabs his wrist. It's on fire under his fingers.

"You're hurting me," Ron lies between clenched teeth, "Let go."

The boy does. He follows Ron back to his sickbed. He eyes it as if he'd like to sit down, but thinks better of it. The boy takes the chair under the window, pulling back the drapes to reveal autumn sunshine. It's bright and cheery and Ron doesn't feel like smiling at all. His chest hurts, he can't breathe, his mind is nothing more than a jumble of fleeting happenstance. He sits on the bed with a whoosh of dizziness, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. The boy is beside him in seconds.

"I'm fine," Ron says, trying to be reassuring when it's all he can do not to throw up.

The boy doesn't believe him. Ron can tell by the way his jaw clenches; by the way Ron is given _the look_. The same one that says _I'm The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Make-Your-Life-Miserable._ He calls for Madam Pomfrey. She comes bustling around the divider curtain, wand at the ready.

"Out, Potter, out," She demands at once, "You're making him miserable."

Potter's protests prove unsuccessful as Madam Pomfrey spells him clean. Then she is yanking Potter away and pushing him out of the infirmary without so much as a _good day_. Ron doesn't know if he groaning in relief or misery. His heart is protesting like it's been pricked a thousand times all over by his mum's sewing needles.

Madam Pomfrey pours more potions down Ron's throat until his tongue is numb with the taste of them. She tucks him back into bed and he sleeps. He dreams of chess and quidditch. It is so bizarre that when the dream shifts, Ron hardly notices. One minute there are pawns stealing quaffles and rooks dodging bludgers, and the next it's Potter, _Harry_, Harry Potter everywhere – and how could Ron have ever forgotten? There's Scrawny Harry wearing overlarge clothes and clunky glasses, asking how to get to the Hogwarts Express. Vulnerable Harry with his nightmares and visions, scar angry and red on his forehead. Determined Harry saving him from the merpeople – _what I'd miss most_.

Ron wakes with a jolt, tangled in the linen. Sweat soaks his hair along with the lone tear trailing down his face. Ron stares blankly at the candle glowing above his bed, trying to burn away the images of a boy still playing through his mind. It doesn't work, not even when Ron squeezes his eyes shut tight. Ron still sees him everywhere. A self deprecating sigh pushes past his chapped lips. Ron thinks that this is what is must feel like to fight off a pack of mountain trolls and come out the worse for it.

Ron wishes he was as smart as Hermione, then maybe he'd be able to figure out this mess he'd gotten himself stuck in. Ron is overwhelmed with the reality of it. He peels away the sheets and gets out of bed. While he grabs for his wand on the bedside table, he knocks over the potions provided by Madam Pomfrey with a shaky hand. The vials don't break, but the potions ooze out into the tray. Ron watches them puddle together, their orange and green and white colorations swirling together lazily. He vaguely wonders if Madam Pomfrey will be more upset when she finds out that he's gone or that he's not taken his potions. Ron doesn't let it stop him as he tears his eyes away from the mess he's made, nor does he acknowledge the cold as he steps around his divider curtain and out of the infirmary.

Ron is met with the soft snoring of sleeping portraits, but the halls are otherwise silent as he moves through them. It's possible that Filch, or Snape, or both could still be out and about, but Ron doubts it. He only happens upon Sir Nicholas. The ghost is floating through a wall in mindless sleep. Ron skirts around him and stumbles the rest of the way to the Entrance Hall. It feels weird to be there all alone without anyone beside him, but Ron tries not to let it bother him. He pushes the door open. The night is rainy and wet, a chilly breeze slapping his face when he steps outside. Ron is soaked in seconds, hair plastering to his neck and face. His boxers rub uncomfortably against his thighs. They become so waterlogged that when they slip off his waist, Ron lets them fall to the ground.

Naked and unconsciously shivering, Ron trudges to the lake. Grass snags at his feet, mud splattering up his legs. Ron ignores it. He clambers over the rocks to the shore, where he stares resolutely at the wide expanse of water before him. It shines black and smooth under the light of a gibbous moon; occasional ripples shatter the Lake's calm façade. Fish jump to catch insects and grindylows jump to catch fish. It probably would have been amusing if Ron was actually watching. He is too busy seeing something else.

The mind's eye is remarkably strange when it wants to be. Who would have ever thought that Ron would daydream about cupboards with friendly spiders and frying eggs on a stovetop? Ron has never used a stovetop in his life! But it isn't much of a daydream, because it quickly fuzzes and shifts into something else. A dark room, with cold stone and plush rugs; beds and trunks lined the circular walls that were dotted with windows overlooking nothing but darkness. The beds are occupied, but Ron can't make out faces, doesn't even care to. He is moving closer to one four poster in particular, but with each step he takes his vision blurs more and more until Ron can barely see anything at all. Ron reaches out, fingers ghosting over someone's mouth, cheeks, nose. He rests his hand on their forehead.

Ron jolts back into awareness, blinking away whatever it is he was seeing furiously until it's just him and the grass and the grindylows. He's gasping and floundering in the surf that laps against his heaving chest. The sun is beginning to rise and peek, illuminating the sky with vivid yellows and pinks. Ron finds this strange, but can't seem to remember why. Something brushes against his feet underwater, tickling the pads of his toes. Ron kicks it away. His body is numb with cold, joints aching while he pulls himself away and out of the Lake.

The rain has stopped, but the dawn is still as chilly as before. Grime and muck clings to his body and Ron tries to brush it off with indifferent distaste. It smears. His paleness is masked by lumpy brownish black, small rocks scraping down his arms and legs and chest with every sloppy swipe of his hands. Ron hardly notices. Sunken ankle deep in earth, Ron squelches his way free. Birds chirp sweetly from surrounding trees as he staggers across the school grounds. He follows their songs mindlessly. Time means nothing anymore. Images of a four poster bed haunt him. Ron holds his right hand high in the air, cupping his palm against the glowing sun. It's not just the sun's warmth that he feels. Ron swears that he feels something else, too.

A wet cough forces its way up Ron's esophagus. It sears as it rises, bringing with it the metallic taste of blood. Pain reawakens in his chest. This time its rage is more potent and it spreads throughout Ron's body. He claws frantically at the source, trying to tear through his own flesh to get the terrible hurt out. It's his screams that bring people running. By the time Professor Sprout and her class of fourth years reach him, Ron has gone silent and still. The pain has not disappeared, only dulled to an insistent throb.

Professor Sprout immediately forces everyone to back away. She summons Madam Pomfrey with a speedy _expecto patronum, _a silvery sparrow flying straight from the tip of her want to the high windows of the hospital wing. Ron flounders on the ground. He can't remember falling. His stomach heaves and puke and blood pool from his mouth. Gasps echo all around him and Ron acknowledges them with a faint groan. He feels like he's falling apart.

Madam Promfrey finally arrives, Professor Snape right on her heals. Unfamiliar spells are spoken and potions are poured down his throat. Ron can't keep them down. The world becomes one giant blur.

"Take your students and go, Pomona," Madam Pomfrey says, not looking from Ron who was still lying on the ground, "They needn't see this."

Professor Sprout nods and herds the fourth years away. Once they are out of earshot, Madam Pomfrey speaks again.

"He's dying, Severus, and I can do nothing to stop it," Her voice cracks near the end.

In all of her years as Hogwarts' mediwitch, Poppy Pomfrey has never once lost a student. She frequently prides herself on her expertise. Now all she feels is helpless. Young Ronald Weasley's body is slowly dying from the inside out, his magical core a swirling chaos of rot. Madam Pomfrey can't do anything to fix him. All she can do is prolong the inevitable.

"I'll fetch the Headmaster, shall I?" Professor Snape answers coolly, hiding his surprise by swiftly marching back to the castle.

Madam Pomfrey tuts sadly before busying herself with transporting Ron to the Hospital Wing. At least they had found him. It had been quite the unpleasant surprise to find that Ron had left sometime during the night. He'd been missing ever since.

Headmaster Dumbledore is already present when Madam Pomfrey and Ron arrive. She tucks Ron back into his bed. Sweat beads down his forehead, cheeks flushed a cherry red.

"I've contacted his family. They are waiting in my office," The Headmaster murmurs softly, his eyes void of any twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles.

"What of Miss Granger?" Madam Pomfrey asks, "And has Mr. Potter been found yet?"

Ron instantly feels sick but doesn't know why. It's like he's worried for this Mr. Potter, but that's ridiculous. Ron doesn't even know who he is. He should be worrying about himself. An anti-nausea potion is administered to him. Madam Pomfrey makes sure that it stays down for over a minute before she gives him the strongest pain potion that she has. Ron's eyes instantly roll back into his head and he passes out cold. His breathing is still labored.

Hermione is there when Ron wakes. He tells her that just because he keeps passing out doesn't mean that he is any less of a man. She smiles and laughs and tears spill from her eyes. Soon she's sobbing and hugging him gently. Ron pulls her tighter against him; he's not about to break.

"Am I dying?" Ron asks calmly once Hermione quiets.

"No," She says fiercely, bushy hair tangled and wild as she shakes her head in denial, "No, no you can't be!"

Ron can say no more. He lays back on his bed, gingerly pulling the bedcovers up to his chin. He always thought that he would live a long life. Most wizards do. Now Ron doesn't know what to think. He hopes it is only Madam Pomfrey's potions that have numbed him to the core.

The hospital curtain is pulled aside. Ron peers around Hermione to see who it is. He almost doesn't recognize the boy at first. Then Ron remembers that Madam Pomfrey called him Potter earlier. So this was the missing boy.

_Just like me. I was missing, too._

"Shite!" Hermione whisper-yells, "Where the bloody hell have you been?"

Ron is surprised that Hermione is swearing. She never swears. And she definitely shouldn't talk to strangers like that, even if she is angry.

"Sorry, 'Mione. I lost track of time," Potter apologizes; Ron doubts that that excuse will appease her.

"Lost track of time _where? _Ron went missing last night. If you had been here, then maybe we could have used the map. Instead Professor Sprout and her fourth years found him screaming bloody murder! Maybe if you had been here Ron wouldn't be…" Hermione trailed off quietly, her anger abruptly curbed by her grief.

"Ron's what?" Potter says, looking back and forth between the two of them, "What's wrong with you?"

Ron thinks that that is a very personal question for a stranger to be asking. Even if Ron's whole body is aware of Potter's presence, why would he want to answer that?

"I'm sorry," Ron says, "But who are you?"

A/N: Please review. I appreciate all of the feedback.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Here's the last bit of this fic, as promised. Sorry for the delay.

Pairing: Harry/Ron

Rating: R

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am merely playing for my own amusement. No money is being made in the process.

Call it Affinity

Part II

There is a poignant pause before Potter lets out a shaky laugh, "Very funny, Mate."

But it's Ron's face that reveals he's not joking. Ron really doesn't know who this boy is. Why should he? They'd only just met, hadn't they?

Hermione lets out a strangled hiccup before crumbling in her chair. Potter is sitting frozen in his. Flitting emotions race across his face and Ron can't help but be enraptured by them. He likes how expressive Potter is. And then his face settles and Ron doesn't know if he likes it anymore. Betrayal smolders in Potter's eyes. Ron's insides twist at the sight.

The hospital wing suddenly drops temperature very quickly, ice crackling across the windows. Next to his bed the potion vials shatter, green and grey liquids frozen into miniature cylinders. Ron shivers and gasps and his body arches. The air is sharp with the cold, cutting down his throat, tearing his lungs. Ron can hardly breathe. He is left gaping and suffocating and not knowing what to do, all in the space of five seconds.

"Stop it, Harry!" Hermione shrieks, jumping up from her chair, "Look what you've done!"

And just as suddenly as it came, the cold seeps away. Only it hasn't vanished completely. It's gone inside of Potter, Harry, because instead of smoldering, now his eyes are just hollow. Ron coughs weakly, not feeling relieved at all. Wetness dribbles from his nose. Red splotches appear on his hospital gown as it drips from his chin. Funny that this shouldn't hurt when what Ron can't see hurts most of all. Maybe he's just delusional.

"I'm sorry," Potter sighs, "let me help."

Potter summons a rag and spells it wet. While he dabs at Ron's face, he explains that he met with Madam Pomfrey before coming to visit. She said that it's best for direct magic not to be cast on him, in case it worsens his delicate position. Ron scoffs, but swallows his complaints. Being taken care of like this is a pleasant change. Ron likes this sudden gentle Potter. It's almost like the blood is being caressed away. Potter's fingers dance across his face in time with the lullaby he is now humming faintly. Ron is lulled to sleep long before the bleeding stops.

Ron wakes to somebody asleep next to him. The mattress is too small; they're both lying half off, half tangled together. Ron flounders for a plausible explanation. Even after he struggles to sit, Ron doesn't recognize the boy beside him right away. He knows that maybe, possibly, the messy black hair and jagged scar should produce a name. Ron is disappointed when nothing comes. He takes defeat in stride, curling against the boy's warmth to covet what little time Ron surely has left of him.

His bed partner only awakens once Ron succumbs to a shivering fit. The green, green eyes startle him just as much as the strong arms offering support. Relief floods through his veins, washing away the discomfort. Ron melts into the boy's embrace. Surely mental recognition pales in comparison to this. While Ron's body is dying, his soul is not. No memories are needed for a connection as deep rooted as theirs. Ron could lie like this forever if forever was an option.

"Should I get Pomfrey?" The boy asks, levitating Ron's potion tray onto the bed with them.

Ron shakes his head. What more could she do for him, anyway? Let her tend to the other patients. They need her most.

"Can you tell me your name?"

The boy stiffens. Ron is hyper aware because they're lounging back to front and suddenly it's not so comfortable anymore. A minute drags by, imaginary fingers grasping at nothing. Then another. Ron clears his throat, winces, coughs.

"I'm Ron," He says carefully, "But you probably already know that, don't you?"

"Yes," The boy answers, "Yes, I do."

And that makes Ron unbearably sad. He wants to remember this boy. He really, really wants to. Ron hopes his memory won't be impaired forever. Dying without knowing, Ron can't even entertain the thought.

"Let me know you now," Ron begs, body twisting awkwardly in the tight embrace.

The expression on the boy's face is strained. He reaches around Ron to grab a potion off the tray while he thinks. Ron's lips part obediently once the vial is held to his mouth, and he drinks it down in two consecutive gulps. Ron's almost used to the taste. It's not long before his stomach settles and the shivers stop, but the boy's still not said a word. Ron wishes that he wasn't such a big decision.

"Am I not worth it?" Ron asks when he can't bare the silence any longer.

"No," The boy says, "That's not it at all. I'd leave you alone if I could, but I can't. You're dying, Ron, and you don't even bloody remember me."

Ron frowns, hands clutching at the boy's jumper. He rests his head on the boy's chest, ear above heart, and just listens to it beat. The soft ba-dum, ba-dum soothes him right down to his toes.

"I recognize you," Ron murmurs.

"Of course you do, I was here this afternoon."  
"You were?" Ron doesn't remember. It seems he's getting worse.

"This is why I don't want to tell you who I am. What if you forget again?"

"I won't," Ron promises, though he can't be certain, "Please tell me your name."  
"It's Harry," He says, and Ron feels like he's known all along.

Not ten minutes later Ron is transferred to St. Mungo's for all of three days. The mediwizards, just as Madam Pomfrey, are unable to diagnose him. The gloomy atmosphere smothers Ron. Barred from visitors, he forgets how to fight. Ron surrenders to sleep and pain and flits in and out of reality. His dreams are hazy, fuzzed images of four-poster beds, slimy tunnels, and a giant black grim. It's Harry that rescues him, barging into his room to floo them back to Hogwarts. Ron guesses that they'll be in a lot of trouble once they're found out, but he doesn't care. He can finally breathe again.

Ron follows Harry through the castle, not surprised when they stop in front of the Room of Requirement. Inside is everything Ron could ever need to keep comfortable. Waiting for death is ominous, but Harry says he won't leave his side again. And Harry keeps his word. He skips classes, summons Dobby for meals, and shares the bed with him when night falls. All day he's nursed Ron, and now Harry is exhausted. Ron lets him sleep.

Shadows flicker all around from the fireplace. The heat curls around Ron's body until Ron can stand it no more. He scrambles out of his clothes until he's bare and the heat only has naked skin to lick. A whimper rises from his throat. Ron doesn't feel right. He's still so hot. It's pooling in his abdomen, searing through his veins. Ron rolls towards Harry, lying oblivious beside him. There's something wrong and Harry can fix it. Ron needs Harry to fix it.

Ron's mouth opens, but words fail him. He reaches out, fingers ghosting over Harry's mouth, cheeks, nose. He traces the jagged scar, mumbling soundless nonsense. Then there is an explosion of magic and Ron is surrounded by a whirlwind of memories. He siphons through them, searching for the source. Ron ignores the cupboard with its spiders, ignores all of it, even his own face. He knows what he's come for. It pulses before him, alive and whole. Ron basks in its power until he is pulled forward against his will, until there is nothing left between him and the magical core.

Ron shouts and writhes, but he can't escape. His mind is pleasantly empty, but somehow Ron just knows that he shouldn't be liking this. It's wrong and sick and what the fuck is he doing to Harry?

_Make me stop. Make me stop. Make me stop._

But Ron can't. He's not in control. Then he is, then he can, and everything melts away. Ron is collapsed on top of Harry, sweat binding them together. Relief crashes over him like a wave once he feels Harry's chest rising and falling, warm breath puffing in his face. Ron casts a quick _scourgify _before picking himself up so Harry can move. But Harry's not moving. He's just lying there, consumed by sleep or something else like it even after Ron gives him a shake. And just as suddenly as the relief came, so too does the dread. It pools in Ron's stomach like acid.  
"Bloody hell," Ron whisper-shouts, "Wake up, Harry."

There's no response. Ron is beyond grief, unable to cry or scream or run for help. All he can do is stare and shake and hope to Merlin that Harry is okay, even when Ron knows that he's not. What he's done is unforgivable. Even now the memories are all seeping slowly back a week too late. How could Ron let that monster in? He should have been strong. Instead he was weak, instead he may have cost Harry his life.

"_Enervate_," Ron says hoarsely.

Though he doesn't really expect the spell to work, Ron puts all the power he can into it anyway. He feels the magic well inside him. It pulses like it never has before, but Ron doesn't take the time to notice. His wand vibrates with the amount of magic passing through it. The spell punches against Harry's chest, enveloping him in life-light. It seeps beneath his skin until Harry's veins are glowing with it, steadily moving to pool in his center. Ron doesn't care that he's glowing, too. His wand slips through his fingers to land on the bed. The magic is still as strong as ever. Ron falls forward from the drain, landing chest to chest and neck to neck. Harry gasps beneath him when the glowing meets and stops, eyes wide with wonder.

If anyone said Ron would be lovesick a week ago, let alone pining after his best _mate_, Ron probably would have laughed in their face; but, he wasn't laughing now. Ron doesn't know how or when or _why_ his affection for Harry evolved into something wholly more complex. Both the attraction and the want seemingly came out of nowhere. Now Ron is so euphorically happy that he forgets himself. He holds Harry's tight, fingers tangling in his messy hair. Then their lips are mashing together in a desperate kiss and Ron isn't certain who is kissing who. Harry groans into Ron's mouth, thrusting up beneath him to bring their bodies closer. A startled sigh escapes his lips when their erections meet. Ron moves a hand to Harry's shoulder, fingernails grazing the visible skin around his neck line. Ron can feel his heat through the cotton night shirt, but Ron wants it off anyway. The room is still so hot. So hot that Ron feels on fire as they kiss and kiss and kiss – Perfect.

Harry brakes away first, panting. He rests his face in the crevice under Ron's jaw. There he peppers sweet feather kisses, hair tickling Ron's face. His legs wrap securely around Ron's waist, drawing him down even further. Ron doesn't mind. He gyrates his hips until a sharp gasp is elicited from Harry. His back arches up off the mattress, toes curling.

Ron runs his hands down Harry's sides. He wishes their clothes were gone, but doesn't have enough will to stop and fix that problem just yet. Ron firmly grabs hold of Harry's arse, lifting him forcibly to rest groin to groin. A shiver of pleasure reverberates between them, gooseflesh rising.

"Ron," Harry whispers huskily, head thrown back in abandon as they continue to rock together.

Ron can already feel that liquid heat beginning to pool in his abdomen. He doesn't want it to end. Release shouldn't come so soon. He wants them to be like this forever, just the two of them together, finally _living_ off in their own _Somewhere_.

"S-stop" Ron says, "Harry – Uhn! – Wait."

Harry stops, face scrunched in a mixture of frustration and concern. Ron brushes a sweaty lock of hair from Harry's face with careful fingers. He's done nothing wrong.

"Let's do this right."

So they do. Their clothes are torn off and flung carelessly away. Finally, finally, they are both gloriously naked and exposed, aroused and slightly embarrassed. Everything national, everything expected. It was all Ron could ever ask for, except…

"Harry," Ron whispers into his ear, nibbling on the outer shell, "I want to be inside you now."

There is no moments hesitation before Harry leans against Ron, pushing him down on the bed. Something desperate fills their next kiss, something needy. Ron tries to reassure Harry as best he can, cradling him tenderly in his arms.

"Only if you want to," Ron says when he's able.

The last thing he wants is for Harry to feel pressured. Sex shouldn't be something to regret.

"What does that mean?"

"Harry," Ron admonishes, pressing a sloppy kiss to his lips, "I want you to want me make love to you."

Harry's mouth twitches into a smile, a pretty blush tinting his cheeks. Then his hands are mapping every inch of Ron's body, eyes relit with passion. Wet kisses trail down Ron's neck, teeth scraping at his collar bone. When Harry's lips encircle a pert nipple, Ron can't help but whimper. He never knew that he could ever feel this good, this happy – but Harry's hands are moving again, farther down. Ron becomes putty, ready and willing for anything Harry wants. When Harry's calloused fingers wrap around Ron's weeping erection, a throaty groan rumbles from his chest.

"Lube, lotion, something," Ron pants, frantically looking around for some sort of lubrication.

A vial of it appears on the bedside table. Ron reaches for it, stretching under Harry as he crawls back up Ron's chest. Their lips connect, molding together in a tender kiss. Ron melts beneath the onslaught, lubrication forgotten until Harry thrusts down against his groin. He spreads the oil generously over his fingers. Harry leads them down his body to his entrance. Ron runs a nail along Harry's perineum, thumbs at the puckered hole, until oil glistens and runs down Harry's thighs. Only once Harry is pushing back against him does Ron enter Harry with a single finger. He studies Harry's face carefully, taking care that there is no pain.

"More," Harry commands, shifting his hips for better access.

Ron complies, adding a second finger and scissoring them slowly to fit a third. When Ron finally slips his fingers from Harry, he hisses at the loss. Then Ron presses his erection to Harry's entrance. Their eyes connect, green on blue. Harry's hands clutch at Ron's waist, knuckles white, but there is a look of profound wonder on his face when he impales himself over Ron's erection. They arch together.

"Keep going," Harry urges, sliding up Ron's erection, up Ron's chest, and then back down.

Their sex is uncoordinated and sloppy, but everything Ron could ever want. He feels so connected to Harry, and not just because of the penetration. This is so much more than sexual gratification. Ron flexes his hips to meet Harry thrust for thrust. It's in and out, kiss and breathe. Any sense of self control is lost once Ron brushes that spot deep within Harry that makes him writhe and yelp in undeniable pleasure. The pressure mounts quickly, faster than before. Ron's hands rake up Harry's back, mindless of the shallow marks he leaves behind. The sound of flesh hitting flesh fills his ears, Harry's muffled groans sending jolts of electricity to Ron's groin.

Harry stiffens and screams when he comes, erection caught snugly between their grinding bodies. His seed splatters up their chests. It's Harry's muscles clenching around him that tears the orgasm from Ron. With one final, brutal thrust Ron empties himself inside of Harry before collapsing.

"What just happened?" Harry asks breathlessly.

Ron rolls on his side to face him. Harry's face is still flushed, chest heaving up and down. He laces their fingers together.

"Which part?" Ron grins lazily.

"The one where you went from dying to having sex, and maybe what happened in between."

"Oh," Ron says, "That part."

So Ron tells him, mind and mouth disconnected in the darkness. He explains that because he was weak, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wormed his way inside. Ron was nothing more than a vessel used to attack Harry. The first night it happened, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named forced Ron to directly attack Harry's magic. But his plan backfired. Once Ron came in contact with Harry's magical core, Ron was able to fight back – but he wasn't able to get him out.

"What I don't understand," Ron continues, "Is why he's finally gone now. What changed?"

Harry smiles and cuddles closer, pulling the blankets over both of them. He doesn't look concerned at all anymore.

"That's simple, Ron," Harry says, "We've connected."

But Ron still doesn't understand at all. "Harry, you're still not making any sense," Ron sighs.

"Call if affinity, Ron. When you attacked me, our souls connected and we fell in love. It's that simple."

A/N: So this was quite a wild ride to write. I thought I would never finish. Between work and life and I had one hell of a time getting it all out. Seriously, nothing like a trip to the ER for inspiration, right? That was exciting.


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